Shelookedattheclock。Charleswaslate。Then，sheaffectedanxiety。Twoorthreetimessheevenrepeated，“Heissogood!“
TheclerkwasfondofMonsieurBovary。Butthistendernessonhisbehalfastonishedhimunpleasantly；neverthelesshetookuponhispraises，whichhesaideveryonewassinging，especiallythechemist。
“Ah!heisagoodfellow，“continuedEmma。
“Certainly，“repliedtheclerk。
AndhebegantalkingofMadameHomais，whoseveryuntidyappearancegenerallymadethemlaugh。
“Whatdoesitmatter？“interruptedEmma。“Agoodhousewifedoesnottroubleaboutherappearance。“
Thensherelapsedintosilence。
Itwasthesameonthefollowingdays；hertalks，hermanners，everythingchanged。Shetookinterestinthehousework，wenttochurchregularly，andlookedafterherservantwithmoreseverity。
ShetookBerthefromnurse。Whenvisitorscalled，Felicitebroughtherin，andMadameBovaryundressedhertoshowoffherlimbs。Shedeclaredsheadoredchildren；thiswasherconsolation，herjoy，herpassion，andsheaccompaniedhercaresseswithlyricaloutburstwhichwouldhaveremindedanyonebuttheYonvillepeopleofSachettein“NotreDamedeParis。“
WhenCharlescamehomehefoundhisslippersputtowarmnearthefire。Hiswaistcoatnowneverwantedlining，norhisshirtbuttons，anditwasquiteapleasuretoseeinthecupboardthenight-capsarrangedinpilesofthesameheight。Shenolongergrumbledasformerlyattakingaturninthegarden；whatheproposedwasalwaysdone，althoughshedidnotunderstandthewishestowhichshesubmittedwithoutamurmur；andwhenLeonsawhimbyhisfiresideafterdinner，histwohandsonhisstomach，histwofeetonthefender，histwocheeksredwithfeeding，hiseyesmoistwithhappiness，thechildcrawlingalongthecarpet，andthiswomanwiththeslenderwaistwhocamebehindhisarm-chairtokisshisforehead：“Whatmadness!“hesaidtohimself。“Andhowtoreachher!“
Andthussheseemedsovirtuousandinaccessibletohimthathelostallhope，eventhefaintest。Butbythisrenunciationheplacedheronanextraordinarypinnacle。Tohimshestoodoutsidethosefleshlyattributesfromwhichhehadnothingtoobtain，andinhisheartsheroseever，andbecamefartherremovedfromhimafterthemagnificentmannerofanapotheosisthatistakingwing。Itwasoneofthosepurefeelingsthatdonotinterferewithlife，thatarecultivatedbecausetheyarerare，andwhoselosswouldafflictmorethantheirpassionrejoices。
Emmagrewthinner，hercheekspaler，herfacelonger。Withherblackhair，herlargeeyes，heraquilinenose，herbirdlikewalk，andalwayssilentnow，didshenotseemtobepassingthroughlifescarcelytouchingit，andtobearonherbrowthevagueimpressofsomedivinedestiny？Shewassosadandsocalm，atoncesogentleandsoreserved，thatnearheronefeltoneselfseizedbyanicycharm，asweshudderinchurchesattheperfumeoftheflowersminglingwiththecoldofthemarble。Theothersevendidnotescapefromthisseduction。Thechemistsaid——
“Sheisawomanofgreatparts，whowouldn’tbemisplacedinasub-prefecture。“
Thehousewivesadmiredhereconomy，thepatientsherpoliteness，thepoorhercharity。
Butshewaseatenupwithdesires，withrage，withhate。Thatdresswiththenarrowfoldshidadistractedfear，ofwhosetormentthosechastelipssaidnothing。ShewasinlovewithLeon，andsoughtsolitudethatshemightwiththemoreeasedelightinhisimage。Thesightofhisformtroubledthevoluptuousnessofthismediation。Emmathrilledatthesoundofhisstep；theninhispresencetheemotionsubsided，andafterwardsthereremainedtoheronlyanimmenseastonishmentthatendedinsorrow。
Leondidnotknowthatwhenheleftherindespairsheroseafterhehadgonetoseehiminthestreet。Sheconcernedherselfabouthiscomingsandgoings；shewatchedhisface；sheinventedquiteahistorytofindanexcuseforgoingtohisroom。Thechemist’swifeseemedhappytohertosleepunderthesameroof，andherthoughtsconstantlycentereduponthishouse，likethe“Liond’Or“pigeons，whocametheretodiptheirredfeetandwhitewingsinitsgutters。ButthemoreEmmarecognisedherlove，themoreshecrusheditdown，thatitmightnotbeevident，thatshemightmakeitless。ShewouldhavelikedLeontoguessit，andsheimaginedchances，catastrophesthatshouldfacilitatethis。
Whatrestrainedherwas，nodoubt，idlenessandfear，andasenseofshamealso。Shethoughtshehadrepulsedhimtoomuch，thatthetimewaspast，thatallwaslost。Then，pride，andjoyofbeingabletosaytoherself，“Iamvirtuous，“andtolookatherselfintheglasstakingresignedposes，consoledheralittleforthesacrificeshebelievedshewasmaking。
Thenthelustsoftheflesh，thelongingformoney，andthemelancholyofpassionallblendedthemselvesintoonesuffering，andinsteadofturningherthoughtsfromit，sheclavetoitthemore，urgingherselftopain，andseekingeverywhereoccasionforit。Shewasirritatedbyanill-serveddishorbyahalf-opendoor；bewailedthevelvetsshehadnot，thehappinessshehadmissed，hertooexalteddreams，hernarrowhome。
WhatexasperatedherwasthatCharlesdidnotseemtonoticeheranguish。Hisconvictionthathewasmakingherhappyseemedtoheranimbecileinsult，andhissurenessonthispointingratitude。Forwhosesake，thenwasshevirtuous？Wasitnotforhim，theobstacletoallfelicity，thecauseofallmisery，and，asitwere，thesharpclaspofthatcomplexstrapthatbuckedherinonallsides。
Onhimalone，then，sheconcentratedallthevarioushatredsthatresultedfromherboredom，andeveryefforttodiminishonlyaugmentedit；forthisuselesstroublewasaddedtotheotherreasonsfordespair，andcontributedstillmoretotheseparationbetweenthem。Herowngentlenesstoherselfmadeherrebelagainsthim。Domesticmediocritydrovehertolewdfancies，marriagetendernesstoadulterousdesires。ShewouldhavelikeCharlestobeather，thatshemighthaveabetterrighttohatehim，torevengeherselfuponhim。Shewassurprisedsometimesattheatrociousconjecturesthatcameintoherthoughts，andshehadtogoonsmiling，tohearrepeatedtoheratallhoursthatshewashappy，topretendtobehappy，toletitbebelieved。
Yetshehadloathingofthishypocrisy。ShewasseizedwiththetemptationtofleesomewherewithLeontotryanewlife；butatonceavaguechasmfullofdarknessopenedwithinhersoul。
“Besides，henolongerlovesme，“shethought。“Whatistobecomeofme？Whathelpistobehopedfor，whatconsolation，whatsolace？“
Shewasleftbroken，breathless，inert，sobbinginalowvoice，withflowingtears。
“Whydon’tyoutellmaster？“theservantaskedherwhenshecameinduringthesecrises。
“Itisthenerves，“saidEmma。“Donotspeaktohimofit；itwouldworryhim。“
“Ah!yes，“Felicitewenton，“youarejustlikeLaGuerine，PereGuerin’sdaughter，thefishermanatPollet，thatIusedtoknowatDieppebeforeIcametoyou。Shewassosad，sosad，toseeherstandinguprightonthethresholdofherhouse，sheseemedtoyoulikeawinding-sheetspreadoutbeforethedoor。Herillness，itappears，wasakindoffogthatshehadinherhead，andthedoctorscouldnotdoanything，northepriesteither。Whenshewastakentoobadshewentoffquitealonetothesea-shore，sothatthecustomsofficer，goinghisrounds，oftenfoundherlyingflatonherface，cryingontheshingle。Then，afterhermarriage，itwentoff，theysay。“
“Butwithme，“repliedEmma，“itwasaftermarriagethatitbegan。“
ChapterSixOneeveningwhenthewindowwasopen，andshe，sittingbyit，hadbeenwatchingLestiboudois，thebeadle，trimmingthebox，shesuddenlyheardtheAngelusringing。
ItwasthebeginningofApril，whentheprimrosesareinbloom，andawarmwindblowsovertheflower-bedsnewlyturned，andthegardens，likewomen，seemtobegettingreadyforthesummerfetes。Throughthebarsofthearbourandawaybeyond，theriverseeninthefields，meanderingthroughthegrassinwanderingcurves。Theeveningvapoursrosebetweentheleaflesspoplars，touchingtheiroutlineswithaviolettint，palerandmoretransparentthanasubtlegauzecaughtathwarttheirbranches。Inthedistancecattlemovedabout；neithertheirstepsnortheirlowingcouldbeheard；andthebell，stillringingthroughtheair，keptupitspeacefullamentation。
Withthisrepeatedtinklingthethoughtsoftheyoungwomanlostthemselvesinoldmemoriesofheryouthandschool-days。Sherememberedthegreatcandlesticksthatroseabovethevasesfullofflowersonthealtar，andthetabernaclewithitssmallcolumns。Shewouldhavelikedtobeoncemorelostinthelonglineofwhiteveils，markedoffhereandtherebythestuffblackhoodsofthegoodsistersbendingovertheirprie-Dieu。AtmassonSundays，whenshelookedup，shesawthegentlefaceoftheVirginamidthebluesmokeoftherisingincense。Thenshewasmoved；shefeltherselfweakandquitedeserted，likethedownofabirdwhirledbythetempest，anditwasunconsciouslythatshewenttowardsthechurch，includedtonomatterwhatdevotions，sothathersoulwasabsorbedandallexistencelostinit。
OnthePlaceshemetLestivoudoisonhiswayback，for，inordernottoshortenhisday’slabour，hepreferredinterruptinghiswork，thenbeginningitagain，sothatherangtheAngelustosuithisownconvenience。Besides，theringingoveralittleearlierwarnedtheladsofcatechismhour。
Alreadyafewwhohadarrivedwereplayingmarblesonthestonesofthecemetery。Others，astridethewall，swungtheirlegs，kickingwiththeirclogsthelargenettlesgrowingbetweenthelittleenclosureandthenewestgraves。Thiswastheonlygreenspot。Alltherestwasbutstones，alwayscoveredwithafinepowder，despitethevestry-broom。
Thechildreninlistshoesranaboutthereasifitwereanenclosuremadeforthem。Theshoutsoftheirvoicescouldbeheardthroughthehummingofthebell。Thisgrewlessandlesswiththeswingingofthegreatropethat，hangingfromthetopofthebelfry，draggeditsendontheground。Swallowsflittedtoandfroutteringlittlecries，cuttheairwiththeedgeoftheirwings，andswiftlyreturnedtotheiryellownestsunderthetilesofthecoping。Attheendofthechurchalampwasburning，thewickofanight-lightinaglasshungup。Itslightfromadistancelookedlikeawhitestaintremblingintheoil。Alongrayofthesunfellacrossthenaveandseemedtodarkenthelowersidesandthecorners。
“Whereisthecure？“askedMadameBovaryofoneofthelads，whowasamusinghimselfbyshakingaswivelinaholetoolargeforit。